Time and Other Drugs
by no drums
Summary: Not a time-turner story, per se. Hermione's travels in time aren't a problem until she runs into the person who makes her question them. Rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

**So, first story! I'm sort of scared, I hope someone finds this at least remotely interesting. It's a bit unconventional, because though it deals with time warps, it doesn't involve time-turners. Anyways, if you feel confused or don't understand some things after reading the chapter, please leave me a review or PM me and I'll answer all questions.**

**I hope you review, anyway :)**

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Chapter 1: Breeding Chaos

The patter of rain on the rooftops was steady and constant. _Tip, tap, tip, tap_, it went and she felt safe knowing it was still late afternoon and it was still raining.

There weren't many things she was sure of, at the moment. It was comforting to hear something that wouldn't change any time soon.

Panic had a way of sweeping over her thoughts, making her unable to continue working for several minutes.

That's when she would get up and walk around the room to clear her head. She'd think about the weekend, she'd think about getting home again, seeing Ron and Harry and her parents. And just generally, being back in 2004.

You never really appreciated certain commodities until you had to live without them. It was true that people like her had magic on their side to smooth out the "rough" edges of living in a Post-War Era, but, witch or not, 1949 was still a pretty dreary year to get through.

Friday was right around the corner, though.

Every Friday night she would use the Temporal Portkey at the designated hour. She had to warm it up an hour in advance, since hers had taken the shape of a thermometer and it couldn't be heated magically.

But Hermione was nothing but resourceful. She would place it on a towel over a bucket filled with scalding water. Then she'd wait and count the minutes until she could go home.

Every night Ron saw her land on the hill outside The Burrow, he'd rush to her with a look of dread on his face. But the dread quickly turned to joy. He always worried there would come a time when she wouldn't return. Which she found endearing, but ultimately, irrational.

"I can't get trapped there, Ron. Time is flexible and open to magical use. I come and go as I please and it's not dangerous at all. The system works really well, actually."

He'd nod and smile, but she could tell he'd never be convinced.

She still remembered the aversion he used to have against her time-turner when they were at Hogwarts.

"Anything that messes with time is bad news in my book," he'd say and whatever she argued back just wouldn't hold water to him.

"This is a completely different method, it's nothing like a time-turner –"

No.

"It's been tested a thousand times –"

No, still.

"I've gone back and forth more than a dozen times and I'm not missing any limbs, nor has the fabric of time been turned upside down –"

Not good enough.

"It can't change the past or modify the future, it doesn't work like that, it's only a very helpful research tool –"

He didn't believe that.

"Look, we've talked about this before. Even if I did run into someone I would later meet in the present or future, they wouldn't be able to recognize me. I wouldn't change anything."

But even that made him twinge with doubt. It was true that he himself wouldn't be able to tell it was her, but any concealment spell had a flaw, a weakness. He was an Auror now and he knew these things. If someone put their mind to it, her disguise could be rendered useless.

And _she_ would probably worry about it more if _she_ read all the reports he had to go over about concealment spells going wrong.

Why hadn't she become an Auror like him? She would have been Head Auror in no time. They could have all worked together; her, him and Harry. The Trio reunited.

Instead, she'd chosen to do research in Runology. As if Ancient Runes hadn't been torture enough during their school years.

He'd thought Runology would be a safe, even boring desk job.

If he'd known she'd have to travel back and forth in time just for some _bloody_ runes and risk getting herself and others in danger...

"If I _had_ changed anything, wouldn't we see the effects of it now? The present, _our_ present, would be completely different, wouldn't it?"

But Ron had read one of the several manuals published by the Ministry on Temporal Portkeys. There were accidents, sometimes.

Sometimes, you split a dimension in half. He didn't really understand how, but it was written there in black and white.

What if she'd done that? What if in another dimension everything _was _changed?

He thought she would dismiss the idea, but instead she smiled and said,

"Everything _is_ changed, in another dimension. But not in ours. It can't affect us."

He didn't understand.

"I've read all the manuals, Ron, and I've studied all the possibilities, as have many before me. You're worrying about something which exists outside our control. Splitting dimensions is rare in the magical world, but it does happen and has happened _before_ the Temporal Portkeys and will happen _after_ there's no Portkey left. There may be as many dimensions out there as there are people and we can do nothing about it. If you start thinking about all the possibilities, you go insane. Just know that it can't harm us. There's nothing terrible about another version of us somewhere out there, slightly different. There could be thousands. It has nothing to do with us."

Indeed, why would it concern them?

Hermione laughed as she remembered the arguments now. She laughed because there was _something_ terrible about it, something she hadn't thought mattered, at the time.

How did you know which dimension you were in? How did you know which version you were?

If there were thousands of dimensions and thousands of versions of yourself, how did you know?

How did you know this was the "real" dimension?

How did you know this was "your dimension", the one you'd grown up in, gone to Hogwarts in, fought in the Second Wizarding War in, fallen in love in?

How did you know you weren't a "modified" version of yourself?

And if all versions were slightly different, how did you even know what "modified" meant?

Who would the real Hermione Jean Granger be? What would be an "unmodified" version of her?

Hermione frowned as she watched a car speed through the twilit city, splashing puddles as it went. She was supposed to clear her thoughts, not breed more chaos.

She sighed and rubbed her tired eyes.

Two weeks ago, she wouldn't have had to clear her head.

Two weeks ago, she wasn't asking herself these questions.

Because two weeks ago, she hadn't caused a split in dimensions.

Two weeks ago, she hadn't run into Tom Riddle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Um, hello again! Here is the second chapter. I hope it will be a fun and interesting read. Thanks to Ariya for the review, it was very kind.**

**If you have any questions, let me know, more will be revealed as the story progresses.**

**Anyway, please read and review!**

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Chapter 2: Inside the Archives

_Two weeks before_

The staircase wound down into the tunnel slowly, as the lights went off, one by one. Hermione waited patiently in the dark. She could have cast a Lumos. But she didn't have to.

When the staircase came to a stop, she was standing in a corridor lit by a dozen chandeliers. The chandeliers were wisps of smoke and light, but they seemed real enough from a distance.

Goblins and elves ran about, pushing carts filled with all sort of magical objects that had long gone out of use.

She paid her good mornings, as usual, and walked calmly to one of the chandeliers. She stood right under its soft light and took out her pass, tapping her wand over the red letters.

The air around her started vibrating. The circle of light expanded and the corridor became a vault.

She wheezed, stepping back. It was always the same when she went through the gate. She always got a large helping of dust in her mouth.

She looked up at the towers of shelves rising all around her. They went in a spiral towards the ceiling and she couldn't see where they stopped.

Careful not to topple anything over, she followed the way to the Touchables section.

The only other people there were an elderly man who was putting back a pair of murky green globes inside a package that looked eerily like Christmas wrapping and a woman in her late forties who was standing in front of a cracked mirror, tapping her feet lightly to the rhythm of an unheard melody. Hermione knew there was a story behind everything, but she didn't have to know _every_ story.

She nodded politely and moved on.

The shelves had a habit of rearranging themselves at night, but she was confident she'd find the chest again. She couldn't Accio it, but she had marked it with her magic.

She lifted her wand into the air and muttered something under her breath.

Suddenly, she was half-running, getting dragged by her wand at dizzying speed. She arrived a mountain of discarded furniture.

Hermione sighed.

The one thing she hadn't counted on; for the shelves to just disappear.

She would've been more surprised, but she'd gotten used to the Paracelsian Archives and the inability of the staff to put the place in a semblance of order.

She didn't want to complain, though. It was a wonder she was there to begin with. This place was definitely not the same in 2004.

It still existed, but it no longer housed all these very strange, very powerful and old objects and, more importantly, it wasn't open to the public anymore.

_Not that it's very popular now_, she thought, looking around the empty place.

You'd think any witch and wizard with a bone of curiosity in them would swarm the place.

_They don't know it will be closed soon, so they don't care_, she thought.

It was only when something was gone that you truly missed it.

"Aha!" Hermione exclaimed, levitating an old, wood-panelled chest out of the debris.

It collapsed on the floor with a thud, despite Hermione's wand work.

"You're a difficult fellow," she muttered.

The chest hadn't opened the first time easily, either.

She traced her fingers over its brass latches and felt the familiar feeling of old magic, electric, but benign.

Hermione quickly set to work. It would take at least half an hour to crack the chest open again.

It had taken her as much last time.

She was two minutes in, when the latches cracked open and the lid rose with a screech.

Hermione stared, wide-eyed.

"How in Merlin's..."

Inside, everything looked normal enough. Stacks and stacks of leather-bound folios and parchments that did not look touched. But she knew better. She waved her wand expertly, making them disappear with a flick.

She was staring in the depths of a dank cellar. One torch was ensconced in the wall, as usual. It was waiting for her to ignite it.

Hermione cast a revealing charm.

Nothing.

She cast another double-layered revealing charm, non-verbally, but still nothing.

Finally, she cast an Anti-Fidelius charm. That should have done the trick.

No sign of foreign magic, however.

She groaned in frustration. Whatever it was, she'd have to see to it herself.

Taking a deep breath, she jumped inside.

The cellar was cold and wet and she felt slimy little worms slither across her ankles. _That_ wasn't changed.

No, it was something else. She was certain, she _knew_ someone had been there recently.

Even though, it was a bit impossible.

The Archives closed every afternoon at five. Everyone was supposed to leave the premises. Those who didn't would have to deal with goblins and their methods of punishment.

She had last gone into the chest the day before and she had vacated the building at half-past four. She had returned that morning at eight on the dot, and she knew no one could have come before her because her pass was only the third given that day for the Touchables section. She doubted the two visitors she had seen earlier had had anything to do with the chest.

So, whoever had found it would have had only half an hour until five o' clock to get it to open, go inside, get back up and leave the Archives.

Unlikely.

Which meant...

_Which means that person might still be here. Inside. _

Hermione drew up her wand at face-level. Whoever it was, she'd be ready.

She lit the torch on the wall. The light stretched on into darkness. A drop of water landed on her nose. She looked up. Stalactites.

Drawing up her tweed jacket around her, she went forward inside the cellar.

She came across the familiar circular room. There were five tombs inside. The fourth, on the left, was the one she wanted.

Hermione knew what this was called; body snatching. Her mother would surely frown upon it. But it was all in the name of knowledge and science, she told herself. Besides, she wasn't harming anyone.

There were only remains of skeleton - brittle bone that once touched would turn to chalk.

She stood in the middle of the room. She felt the hair stand on the back of her neck. You could always hear the dead whispering.

But this time, she heard something different, something strange.

She heard a spell.

The voice came from somewhere nearby. It sounded ragged and hoarse. As for the spell, it sounded like something she'd heard before.

The voice droned on monotonously, drawing out every word like its entire existence depended on it.

She approached the fourth casket warily. Her stomach dropped. It was coming from inside.

_Pluck up, Hermione! You have to open it anyway. Don't you want to copy the rest of the Runes?_

"Not at this moment, no," she mumbled to herself.

But Hermione Jean Granger was anything but a coward. She gritted her teeth and raised her wand.

The incantation was simple-enough, but she had to cast it three times until the casket's hinges finally creaked and the lid opened an inch.

Hermione stepped back and cast a non-verbal Protego around her.

She could see white fingers reaching for the opening. The lid swung open fully.

Hermione blinked.

She was staring into a pair of blue eyes.

A young man was sitting up inside the coffin, his white shirt wrinkled and wet, his curly hair lying damp on his forehead.

He gasped and drew in a deep breath.

"Thank Merlin, I thought I'd have to kill myself," he drawled, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Hermione was still holding her wand up.

"How did you get trapped in there?" she asked, her voice slightly less intimidating than she'd hoped.

He looked at her for the first time. Then he eyed her wand.

"That won't be necessary."

"How do I know that?"

The young man frowned. "Do I look like a threat?"

"I did just find you inside a coffin."

To her surprise, the young man chuckled. His lips drew up in a smile that suited his handsome face well.

Something was oddly familiar about him, although she couldn't, for the life of her, put her finger on it. He might have been familiar in the way many good-looking men were. She might have seen him on the street.

"Do you think I'd harm the person who probably saved my life?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The goblins would have found you, eventually."

"Yes, they would have found a skeleton to match the one inside this coffin."

Hermione lowered her wand slightly.

"You can't have been trapped for more than sixteen hours, or so," she said.

He seemed surprised.

"That's right. How did you know –"

She instantly drew her wand up.

"Oh, so now I'm no longer a threat?" he quipped.

"Your magic levels are very low," she said. "You couldn't hurt me if you wanted to. You used up all your energy to keep yourself alive."

"Well, give me some credit. I used at least a quarter of it to get myself out. But this blasted thing is probably cursed."

Hermione frowned. "Cursed?"

"Obviously. It's easy enough to open from the outside. But once inside, there's no way out. I tried every charm and spell under the sun. I even attempted some complex matter manipulation. If I couldn't get out, I doubt anyone else could," he spoke proudly. _Clearly, it's not any magical deficiency on my part_, he meant to say.

"Oh. Well, that's to be expected of this place, I suppose," she replied, feeling a sense of dread creep into her bones. Only the day before, she had been working close to the coffin, translating and copying Runes. What if _she_ had fallen in? Would someone have come for _her_?

Well, this stranger would have.

"You've been here before," he assumed. It wasn't a question.

"Only once," she admitted. She saw no point in lying about that.

If he was here after the same thing she was, it was best to be on good terms and share the work amicably.

He clambered out of the casket, his body swaying from exhaustion.

"Tom," he said, extending a hand.

Hermione looked at it for a moment too long.

"Jean," she spoke and took it.

"Well, thank you, Jean, I'm sure I can assist you in some way or other to show my gratitude..." he said, nodding his head towards the coffin where the slabs of stone were hidden.

_Just as I thought. He's after them, too. _

"I only want to copy them," she blurted out, feeling uneasy.

Tom nodded his head.

"So do I. I can make two copies, if you like. One for you and one for me."

Hermione shook her head. "No, you don't have to –"

"Please, I insist."

"I don't think that's a good idea in your condition," she said. He was the perfect image of a drunkard or someone who'd suffered a concussion.

"My condition will remedy itself in no time. I'm normally strong, so this little incident will do nothing to deter my..." he trailed off, rubbing his forehead.

"Are you all right?"

"Just a bout of dizziness, nothing out of the –"

But the rest came out in a string of incoherent nonsense.

Before she could properly react, his body had collapsed into hers.

Her arms came up around him and tried to push him off, but it was like trying to push off a rock.

He was lying in her arms, unconscious.

Hermione blinked.

"You have got to be joking."

_Now what? _

She sighed a deep sigh. The goblins didn't care a iota whether you lived or died in those Archives. They wouldn't be of much help.

But she couldn't just leave him there.

She'd have to bring him up with her and find someone to take him to St. Mungo's.

_Bugger, what about the Runes?_

"The Runes will have to wait," she answered her own question.

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Hermione Jean Granger did not know what she had done. Anyone in her position would have been just as ignorant.

She did not know she'd just saved Tom Riddle's life by releasing him from that coffin.

Tom Marvolo Riddle was supposed to die on that day, November 27, 1949.

And in another dimension, he had.

Hermione Jean Granger did not know she had caused a split in dimensions.


End file.
